


ship to wreck

by redbrunja



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-25 05:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: It isn't only Gaby's blood relations that take pleasure in the pain of others.Gaby and Illya deal with the wreckage.





	ship to wreck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roadhymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadhymns/gifts).



> For more explicit warnings with spoilers, see additional notes at the end of the fic.

Solo charmed a pack of cigarettes from one of the secretaries and passed it around the table. No one abstained; they all wanted the taste of this mission out of their mouths, and it hadn't even begun.

Gaby lit her cigarette and inhaled, letting the smoke rest across her tongue. Back in East Berlin, she had taken cigarettes when offered, but never picked up the habit. What little spare money she'd had, she'd spent on black market records and alcohol; tobacco never seemed worth it.

She'd honestly prefer a drink or five right now, but Waverly didn't allow booze in the UNCLE offices.

There was a scientist of Japanese extraction. Presently, he went by the name of Fujita Eizō.

During the war, he'd been part of Unit 731. From there, he'd gone to America. Unsatisfied with the scope of work possible under the auspices of the US government, he'd retreated to a isolated chalet in Switzerland to do self-directed research.

She looked at his photograph, his Asian features, and recognized her uncle, her father.

"His pet project is a violent aphrodisiac," Waverly explained, sliding a selection of photographs across the table. "Uncontrollable arousal, aggression-"

Gaby looked at the photo of a man mounting a woman, her face twisted in pain, another photo of her, standing against a wall, bruises and bite marks stark against her skin, her face so pummeled she could only open one eye.

"Fujita should have been in Berlin in '45," Gaby commented bitterly. "He would have realized how unnecessary his work is."

Illya flinched like she'd struck him.

Gaby had spent the last months of the war in an orphanage in the west of Germany. It had been Allied soldiers that she'd watched pass on their way to Berlin. Her foster mother had never spoken of what she'd experienced during the fall of Berlin. But Gaby's ballet mistress had made sure Gaby and all the other dancers knew _exactly_ what the Red Army had done when they trampled West, and why her charges must _never, ever_ trust the soviets, no matter how nice their words or sweet their smiles.

Waverly continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"-and if the test subject doesn't find release, they suffer cardiac arrest."

There was a picture of a male corpse, bloated tongue lolling out of his mouth, eyes open and the whites entirely red with burst blood vessels.

The was a long pause as photos circled the table.

"Interestingly," Waverly added, "the only effect on female subjects is a slight fever."

Gaby laughed, ash from her cigarette falling and burning her knuckles.

* * *

After the briefing, and a further, private conversation with Waverly, Gaby curled up on the couch in her office, carefully thinking of nothing.

Illya walked by her office, paused.

Gaby wanted him to come in, sit beside her. In mission after mission, he had proved that when he'd promised to be close by, he'd meant it. She'd walked into dangerous places full of dangerous people and learned that he would be there to pull her out. She'd done the same for him - a car waiting on the right corner at the right time, engine running, a distraction at a vital moment.

In Vienna, they'd hidden in a pantry and waited to see if Solo needed saving. Illya looked down at her, face striped with shadows. His right hand rested on her shoulder. He turned his hand, ran his callused thumb along the line of her jaw, his eyes soft. Gaby shivered, and it was the easiest thing in the world to rise to _demi-pointe_ and touch her lips to his.

...And then Solo required a rescue from a temperamental chef.

They'd been in a different city by the next morning and Gaby and Illya had returned to circling around each other. Maybe if Gaby had been braver, had gone to his hotel room the next night she could've managed it, she would be able to ask him to sit beside her now.

Maybe she could be brave now -

Illya continued on, just as she reached out to touch the cushion beside her.

Gaby curled her fingers, brought them to rest against her mouth. Told herself to wait for the next chance.

 

* * *

 

Waverly had an agent inside Fujita's chalet. Every second Tuesday, escorted by two guards, she drove into Geneva to stock up on supplies.

When she left this Tuesday, a green scarf was wrapped around her neck: the personnel listing from her last report remained accurate.

Illya whispered this information into his radio and remained at his post. He was perched high in a pine tree and he tracked the vehicle through his rifle scope for as long as possible. While the sightlines were obstructed, he was able to catch glimpses of the vehicle as it rounded the curves of the mountain, exactly on schedule.

This afternoon, Waverly's agent would arrive in Genera alone. She would have no trouble disposing of the two soldiers who accompanied her. Waverly mentioned that she was looking forward to it.

Illya descended the tree, slunk into position.

There were two clicks over the radio and then it went silent.

Gaby activated an electromagnetic pulse; no radio, telephone, or electronic signals would be able to leave the chalet, or anywhere within five square miles.

Waverly had been firm on this point; their strike was to be deep and clean. He wasn't going to allow Fujita's work to escape. The scientist was paranoid about intellectual theft and kept all backups of his work within reach. UNCLE was going to erase Fujita and his work, and there would be no slithering away for Fujita or any of his employees.

Illya watched the hands of his father's watch tick - 10:21 a.m., Solo and Gaby would be silently entering through the chalet's front door.... 10:22 a.m., 10:23 a.m - Illya slammed his shoulder into the rear door. The door jam splintered and he was inside, descending down into the basement laboratory.

There was a guard coming up the stairs; Illya shot him in the head before he could even touch his weapon.

Then he was in the lab.

There were two more guards and Illya shot them as smoothly as if they were paper targets at the range. As he stepped over their bodies, he noticed that his bullets were placed neatly between their eyes.

From the faint pops upstairs, it was clear that Solo and Gaby were successfully going through the upper rooms, where the majority of the guards would be loitering. This wouldn't be Gaby's first time killing on a mission, but it was her first wet-work assignment. Illya had no concerns. The kind of men who could lend their labor to protecting and furthering Fujita's work were men it was impossible to regret killing.

Illya had butcher's work.

" _Hey, hey,"_ it was a man calling to him in Swiss. He waved his arm through the bars of the cage. His hair was lank with grease and he was nude. " _Let me out!_ "

Illya recognized him from the photographs.

He holstered his weapon, and unlocked the cell door. As the man rushed out, Illya hooked his arm around the man's neck and stabbed him, his knife sliding smoothly between the man's ribs and into his heart.

The next test subject was pressed back against the wall when Illya entered his cage.

They had seen the details of Fujita's work, they had his bio-chemicals in their veins. It was too risky to let them live. Illya was as quick and painless as he could be.

He stepped out of the cell and there was a sharp pain between his spine and his left shoulder blade.

He whirled and backhanded Fujita, knocking the man to the ground. On the closest wall a panel was swung out - a hidden room.

Illya drew his sidearm and shot Fujita in the head. With his other hand he reached back, his fingers finding the syringe that Fujita had stabbed him with. The plunger was almost completely depressed, but there was enough liquid left for Illya to recognize the sickly blue of the scientist's pet project.

He felt cool and perfectly calm.

Illya raised his sidearm to his temple.

There was a shriek and Gaby wretched his wrist down. She got her hand around the barrel of his gun and twisted it brutally back, a move he'd taught her. He heard one of his fingers pop and then the weapon slipped from his grasp.

Gaby threw it across the room.

"No," he said, horrified. He whirled to face her. "Gaby, you don't - Gaby _run_."

He was burning, now, his blood fever-hot. He grabbed her shoulders, intending to push her away from him but instead he yanked her close, slammed his mouth down on hers.

* * *

Gaby opened her mouth, kissed Illya back. She could feel his erection, even through two layers of tactical pants, but she forced her body to relax against his, letting him press their hips together.

She stroked the hair at the nape of his neck, and the kiss softened, Illya pulling away from her mouth to pepper kisses along the line of her jaw.

Gaby was just starting to feel like she had some threads of control over the situation when she heard boots coming down the stairs.

"Solo, _don't,"_ she shouted but of course that just made him break into a run. He burst into the room. Illya snarled at Solo, dragging her behind him.

Illya pulled a knife and Solo pointed his gun. Solo's expression was steely.

Gaby jumped onto Illya's back, one arm around his neck, the other held out to Solo in a stop gesture. Illya didn't seem to notice the addition of her weight at all.

"Don't," she said again, firm.

Solo wavered. "Gaby," he said pleadingly. "Illya won't want to hurt you..."

"I won't let him, I promise," Gaby said, and kissed his neck soothingly as Illya took an ominous step forward. "I can _handle this._ Just- just watch the door for us?"

Solo clenched his jaw, eyes flicking between Gaby's face and Illya's.

"As the lady wishes," he said after a moment, lowering his gun, and then stepped outside, shutting the splintered door as best he could.

As soon as he was out of sight, Illya let her tug at his arm, uncurl his fingers from around the knife and slip into her hand. Illya walked over to the nearest table and shrugged her off his back, knocking beakers aside. They rolled off the edge of the table and shattered. Gaby gripped the knife tighter.

Gaby wore black tac gear, meant to withstand combat. Illya grabbed her top right at the collar and ripped it open. Gaby gasped. Illya kissed her mouth, and then lowered his head, half-lifting her up to get his mouth of her tits. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, bit not-quite hard enough to break the skin. Gaby felt a pulse of heat between her thighs.

Illya curled his fingers in the waistband of her pants and yanked. They were belted tight, the leather scrapping over her hipbones as he yanked her trousers down. Gaby lifted her hips, helping him. Her trousers wouldn't go over her boots, so the fabric tangled around her ankles. She wouldn't be able to run. Gaby forced herself to breath through the spike of fear as Illya, frustrated, shoved her knees apart, tugged her to the very edge of the table, and sheathed himself inside her in one motion.

Gaby couldn't help the sound of pain she made.

Illya fucked her mechanically, metronomically, his rhythm fast and jarring. She wasn't wet enough to take him without discomfort.

Gaby set her teeth, squirmed.

She reminded herself that is was Illya, just Illya, but when she looked up, his eyes were empty.

Gaby couldn't totally force the fear away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the knife right along his spine. She could put the blade between two of his vertebrae, and he would be dead between one thrust and the next. Right now, she held his life in her hands, in more ways in one.

She inhaled deeply.

With her nose right against his neck, Illya's scent filled her lungs - gunpowder and blood but under that was familiarity of his soap, and something uniquely masculine, uniquely.... Illya.

Over his shoulder, she saw Fujita's corpse. A sadist and a coward, just like her uncle and father. Another man who left her with a mess to clean up.

Gaby was suddenly, incandescently angry. It burned all the fear away.

She wasn't going to let another deranged scientist take anything else away from her.

She closed her eyes, inhaled another lungful of Illya's scent. Even here, even now, it made her feel ...safe. Just a scrap of safety, no more, but Gaby grown up in the shadow of the Iron Curtain: she could build a life on scraps of safety.

She relaxed, a little, leaned back. Gaby was slicker than she'd been when they started, and the change in position shifted the angle of his cock, brushed against something deep inside that made her moan. Illya increased his speed but it didn't hurt, now; he was gliding smoothly in and out of her, and it wasn't pain that had her tightening her knees against him, made her match his rhythm and pant encouragement into his ear. Without realizing she was on the cusp, and then suddenly Gaby came. Her orgasm felt like a bone breaking- sharp and electric and leaving her shaking in the aftermath.

Illya climaxed a few strokes later, with a hoarse shout. He swayed, softening inside her, his grip loosening.

There was a long moment and then he swayed backwards, slipping out of her, before his eyes rolled up towards the back of his head and he fell. He hit the floor with a heavy thud that rattled the table she was still sitting on.

 

* * *

 

Gaby carefully untangled her trousers from around her ankles, refusing to let her hands shake.

She slipped off the table, got her pants back on, and walked over to the door, one arm wrapped around her breasts. She couldn't remember what had happened to her brassiere and she didn't want to go looking for it.

"Are you alright?" Solo asked, immediately.

"Of course," Gaby said, lifting her chin. "I need a shirt, though."

Solo unzipped his shirt, held it up so she could slip inside.

"Are you sure?" he touched her shoulder gently through the fabric.

Gaby forced a smile. "I've had worse sex. _And_ worse missions. Remember Bolivia?"

There was a groan that had them both turning.

Illya pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and then slowly lifted his head, an expression of absolute horror on his face.

"No," he pleaded. "Tell me I didn't..."

Neither Solo nor Gaby said anything. Illya flinched, dropping his gaze.

Gaby forced herself to concentrate. They were still on a mission. "Solo, did we get all of the guards?"

"One escaped," he answered. "I heard him heading out the back door but I thought I'd better stay put, given the situation."

"I will handle him," Illya said in a voice like lead. He was on his feet, the pistol Gaby had tossed aside in his hand again.

"We'll set the charges, then," Solo said.

Illya didn't look at either of them as he walked past.

"Illya," Gaby said. He froze but didn't turn around.

"If you kill yourself, I'll never forgive you," she said to his back. She wouldn't let Fujita winning.

Illya didn't answer.

* * *

After Geneva, was Madrid, and then Copenhagen, and then they were back in London, and Illya couldn't stop thinking what he'd done.

The way Gaby's body had felt against him, the taste of her skin, the sound of her gasps in his ear, the tight clench of her cunt - he knew he'd stolen that from her. He'd wanted that before and he still wanted it, and when he slept, he dreamed that she wanted him back.

He was disgusted with himself. He wanted to slit his own throat and bleed out at Gaby's feet, so she would know she was safe from him.

But she'd ordered him to stay alive.

Afterwards, after the last guard had been dealt with, his blood splattered in bright arcs across the snow; the incendiaries set and triggered, and Fujita's chalet burning fast and hot and down to nothing but black ash; in the hotel room, Gaby had typed up all the reports, while he stared down at his hands and Solo worked his way through several glasses of bourbon.

When she was finished, Solo scrawled his signature across the bottom without reading any of it, but Illya read every word. She'd elided the truth of his monsterous actions and protected his place in UNCLE. When he'd opened his mouth to protest, she'd told him to sign it before he could say a word.

The only time he'd managed to speak, even obliquely about what happened in Geneva, was to inform Gaby he was going to request Waverly transfer him back to Moscow.

She'd looked at him and told him not to.

She had to hate him. She must. Illya wanted to hide himself from her sight, prove he'd never hurt her again.

But she'd told him to live and she'd told him to stay.

The only course of action Illya could see before him was to be impeccable, from this moment on. Despite his broken mind and unforgivable actions he would be the perfect agent the KGB had trained him to be. He would never be a decent man but he could at least be useful, to Gaby and her agency. He would focus on that, for as long as UNLCE held his leash. But sooner or later he would be sent back to the USSR, and once he was behind the Iron Curtain, he would go into the countryside and eat a bullet. Gaby need never know.

 

* * *

 

It was late but light limned the doorway of Gaby's office and there was a low murmur of voices.

Illya paused, and then crept closer.

"–perfect for this mission, but I am not unaware of the tension between you and Kuryakin," Waverly said.

There was long pause.

"Give me until tomorrow," Gaby said. "I think I can fix this."

"My dear, Monday is soon enough," Waverly said gently, and Illya realized that it was Friday night.

Gaby should be somewhere besides working late before the weekend. Both of them often worked long past banker's hours, but usually Solo would swan in and drag them both off to dinner or some other amusement. Or Gaby would tell him fetch carry-out and they'd work together in the warm light of Gaby's office.

But things were different now.

Waverly was at Gaby's door, stepping out, and Illya slipped into the office opposite Gaby's, avoiding his superior.

A minute later, there was the tapping of Gaby's heels as she walked out. "Come on," she said as she walked past.

Uncertain, Illya slowly leaned out into the hallway. Gaby was fixing her gloves, not looking at him.

He followed her out of their office.

She hailed a cab, instructed the driver to take them to her apartment, paid him when they arrived. Illya followed her up to her apartment like a looming shadow.

Her apartment was dark when she walked in and she went straight to her liquor cabinet before she even took her coat off. Illya turned on one lamp. Before he could turn on any of the others she was handing him a drink and pointing to her couch.

He sat down and she sat right across from him, on the coffee table.

She knocked her drink back in one smooth swallow and then stared him right in the eyes.

"Do you hate me?" she asked.

Illya's mouth dropped open. He thought he must have misunderstood - he ran the words over and over in his head.

" _No,_ " he said. "I could never - I would never -" he steeled himself. "But you must hate _me."_

Gaby shook her head.

"I _hurt_ you," Illya said.

"No-"

"Don't lie," he said hotly. "I remember enough to know I hurt you."

He remembered that incident in broken fragments. He remembered wanting to kill Solo, he remembered Gaby prying the knife from his hands, he remembered ripping her clothes and sinking into her. She'd been so tight, it had to have hurt her. She'd made little noises that Illya sometimes recalled as sounds of pain and sometimes as sounds of pleasure.

Gaby was quiet.

"Are we a team?" she asked him, sharp.

"Yes," Illya said miserably. The camaraderie that had once bound them together was gone, but they were still a team.

"If I'd been drugged - if having sex with me would have kept me alive, would you have done it?" she continued.

"Of course," Illya answered automatically.

"Waverly and I discussed the possibility of this," Gaby informed him, jutting her chin forward.

"I'd rather fuck you than shot you," she told him bluntly. " _I_ made that choice. If you can't forgive me for that, fine, but I don't regret it."

Illya reached out, touched her knee. He felt dizzy with the version of events Gaby presented, one in which she'd saved him, instead of endured him.

"Do you mean..." he didn't know what to ask.

"I think I should refresh your memory on what happened," Gaby said briskly. She stood up and pulled off her dress in one smooth motion.

He looked up at her, golden skin and dark lace, and when she tugged at his wrist he followed her into the kitchen. She slipped her knickers down and boosted herself onto the kitchen table.

Illya almost went to his knees.

She stretched out her legs to him, guided him forward. He was painfully hard. She unfastened his trousers, took him in hand, wiggled so that his cock was notched against her. Illya groaned out her name and she stopped.

"Say my name again," she instructed.

"Gaby," he said, staring into her eyes, stroking his hands over her hair, her shoulders. He tried to put every ounce of emotion he was feeling into the word, " _Gaby_."

Her lips curved up and then she was screwing herself on his dick, digging her heels into his back.

"Come on," she said, "harder," and he obeyed.

"Are you sure?" he gasped. She was so tight around him, but she just told him, "yes, yes," and then with a few more thrusts, he felt the table buckle under them.

Without thinking, he took all of her weight in his arms, just as the table lurched to one side with a crash. He turned and took to steps to the refrigerator, the only partially clear place in the kitchen. He pinned her against the metal, sending magnets and menus and post-cards onto the floor.

Gaby laughed, and it was the best sound he'd ever heard, she was _laughing_ and in his arms and so, so gloriously slick as he fucked her. He dropped his head down, kissed her cheek, her throat, gave a hard sucking kiss right at her pulse-point that had her clenching tight around him and digging her nails into his shoulders and climaxing.

 

* * *

 

Lying in her bed, Illya stroked her hair, traced the delicate lines of her face.

"You forgive me?" he couldn't help but ask.

Gaby took a deep breath, knew what he needed to hear. "I do."

" Спасибо," he said. "Thank you."

She touched his mouth. "What else?" she asked.

Illya ducked his head, not wanting to admit it.

"This wasn't how - I wanted to make love to you, when we... to begin," he said haltingly.

"Love?" she repeated, flushing from her hairline to the tops of her breasts. Illya felt a burst of delight that saying that, of all things, made her blush.

"Yes, love." Admitting that was easy, here in the dark of Gaby's bedroom, his hands on her skin.

She worried her bottom lip. "Maybe you should show me," she suggested. "How you imagined our first time."

Illya took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, kissed her palm. Then he shifted, straddling her body. He worked his way down, brushing his lips over the line of her collarbones, her slight breasts. He licked across her nipples, felt them pebble under his tongue, and then further down.

He guided one of her legs over his shoulder. He nuzzled at her slit, used his fingers to carefully open her up and licked into her. She tasted intoxicating, tasted like sex and salt and sweetness, her hips hitching as he mouthed at her delicate folds.

He'd never understood why so many men thought women were weak. They were soft and oh so sweet, yes, but every woman Illya had ever met had iron in her blood, survived what would make the strongest man break. They had fathomless reserves inside of them, of endurance and pleasure both. A man would be sated while a woman was had only begun to slack her lust. Illya couldn't follow Gaby, as she crested again and again, riding his mouth, but he could give her everything she wanted, everything she needed, every bit of him. She arched up against his mouth, writhed on the sheets, and Illya pinned her hips down and serviced her until his jaw _ached_ , until his lips and chin where slick with her, until she finally, dug her heel unto his shoulder and said, "no more, no more," in a voice that was hoarse with pleasure.

She was gasping and limp with pleasure when he crawled up the bed. She reached for him, carding her fingers through his hair and pulling him to her mouth. She kissed him deeply, her arousal on both their lips, and Illya felt something settle in him. He could be good for her.

* * *

"Waverly thinks we would make very credible visiting lecturers at the University of Helsinki," Gaby informed him. "And it will give us a good excuse to get lost in various important places."

Illya made a sound of agreement as he glided the washcloth over Gaby's shoulders. They were perfectly clean but having permission to touch her was a luxury he wanted to indulge in as much as possible.

When they'd woken this morning, Gaby had suggested a bath. Illya couldn't think of a more perfect place than Gaby's washroom; cheerful mint-green walls, bright morning light, the air thick with steam, a claw-footed tub full of hot water and frothy bubbles, and Gaby nestled between his knees, her dark hair piled on top of her head.

"So we leave on Thursday?" he asked, kissing the nape of her neck.

Gaby nodded.

"Then Tuesday - would you join me at the ballet?" he asked. 

Gaby shifted in his arms, twisting so she faced him, and his half-hard cock thickened, at the feeling of her in his arms, at the sight bubbles clinging to her shoulders and breasts.

"The ballet?" she asked coquettishly. "Sounds romantic."

"Yes," Illya said, grave. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding his intentions.

Gaby reached between them, stroked his cock a few times, before lifting herself up and sliding him inside her, giving a little sigh when he was as deep as he could get.

"I should warn you," Gaby informed him, beginning to ride him, "that while I am a modern woman, I don't fall into bed with just _anyone._ I'm very... discerning."

"As you should be," he replied. Illya's heart fluttered in his chest. She was asking him to prove his worth. He cupped her neck, pulled her into a kiss, stealing her pleased gasp from her lips. He couldn't wait to do so.

**Author's Note:**

> Several unnamed OCs are injured or killed in association with a violent, potentially-deadly aphrodisiac; Illya is later dosed with it and Gaby decides to have sex with him while he's under the influence. 
> 
> There are also brief references to historical atrocities.


End file.
